White Man Can’t Play Tennis (Well Most of ’em Can for Some Reason, But This One Can’t)

This will be extremely short as I’m pissed I chose the wrong match to watch tonight (I only have time to watch, in it’s entirety, one match tonight). Yes, by 5 o’clock my time I knew Federer had given Ferris detention for playing hooky, and I thought the Hamburgler would be somewhat inspired to disgrace Samuel in front of his down right scary parents. Hmmm, so much for thinking. After watching the first two sets the feeling I had was tantamount to me entering Church’s Chicken, smacking my lips, and thinking nasty thoughts about chicken and waffles, only to wind up walking out with a pile of half-eaten chicken bones with a side of dog shit for dipping. Not far from my house the leader of the San Francisco (cat’s out of the bag on my locale I guess, unless you’re geography knowledge is waaaaaay worse than I originally thought) chapter of the Hells Angels was shot in a struggle with, what the keystone cops out here believe to be someone from a rival gang, the Mongols. I bring this up because that matchup was the exact opposite of the Hamburgler versus Samuel Powers. In the biker brawl, it was like, the two baddest dudes on the planet, going for it all under a streetlight with everything on the line. The Hamburgler and Samuel combined couldn’t match the coolness of one those bikers pubes, let alone the charisma, and charm that comes along with being in a biker gang. Seriously, those guys must hang out drinking whiskey and looking at nudey mags, waiting for someone to talk shit. On the tennis tip, no intrigue, no one to like. “Excuse me waiter, I ordered the gunned down biker, not the pussy channel’s documentary on sweaty unlikeable tennis stars.” Damn it! How good was the Federer match? Super good? Super way badical to the max? Forget it, don’t even tell me, I’ll just bore you with this one instead. So ummm, I guess, let’s go…?

The Hamburgler started off with 87 lets, but no “go’s” (like that?). He double faulted right out of the gate. Nervous much? You should’ve spent a little less time in the mirror unstraightening your hat, and a little more time in the mirror unfreaking yourself out. Actually fate is fate, no matter how much you practice in the mirror. Even your mirror knows you suck.

Breaks flowed like champagne at some sort of art opening where people discussed the negative capability* of breaks, and I knew about 8 minutes into my DVR I had made a terrible mistake. The same feeling my parents must have felt as the doctor held me upside down, dripping with embryonic fluid, declaring, “it lives!”

Seriously, are Dijana and Srdjan (you just know those words are pseudonyms for the devil in some sort of Eastern European bible) made up of hate atoms? Those two look like they were spawned by eagles. I bet instead of sex they have a real go at it, punching each other and grabbing each other all intense like, then they get off in separate rooms by vigorously masturbating to a Ligeti piece. Actually, just a quick tip: I’ve been watching some matches with the sound down and listening to Stravinsky, namely Rite of Spring. The effect is fucking amazing. Oh, and I’m higher than a giraffe’s toupée. It adds to an intensity that’s missing from shitty matches but I’d guess, listening to moody classical music while taking a dump would make you feel like you’re abolishing apratheid or something. I dunno, throw caution to the wind, get high, play some Stravinsky and watch the finals on Sunday with the blinds drawn. Tell your kids it’s daddy’s time to “chill the fuck out” from all the stress they’ve been hurling your way. Tell your wife it’s either this, or you buy a hooker. One of those nice ones. If you’re a woman/girl and you’re reading this, come to my house, we’ll get high off the scent of each other’s naked bodies while taking in a little tennis.

Roddick got upset for not breaking Samuel at 1-1 in the second (tit might have been the 3rd, match was boring with a capital Boob), losing the game at 15. Uhhh, maybe try and hold, for beginners. When teaching your kids to swim you don’t drop ’em from a helicopter 60 feet in the air, in the middle of the Pacific without water wings. You put ’em in the tub and hope they don’t crap, or drown themselves. Hold, then break. Not, get broken, don’t break, get mad. Seriously, the way you’re playing, a hold is like worth two in the bush or something.

Did Roddick lose his Durex at the net? Did Fish Styx and the Hamburgler have a net-bet we don’t know about? It wasn’t so much the frequency as it was the timing. While Samuel was sitting on forehands Dirt Dog was lumbering up to the net like he was about to miss the last bus out of a gay pride parade. Actually, I guess he would’ve wanted to secretly stay, huh? Either way Styx won the bet 66-38. Somewhere Dirt Dog is in a Walmart in Queens demanding 8 bags of ankle socks.

Why does it say in my notes that Office Space is the most overrated movie on the planet?

In the 3rd, Screech made an amazing, sliding, groin stretch shot that landed at Roddick’s athlete’s foot, and McEn______ started talking which always gives Tennisburger the anti-chub treatment. He said something to the affect that technology was to thank for that shot. Uhhh, the technology in Screech’s knees? What is that guy talking about? Ever? Do you think he goes home at night, turns on one of those mini tape recorders, and starts talking about ideas for his stage play? He’s like, “Scene 1, the ghost enters stage right. In the background we see technology wrestling with a baby dinosaur. The lights grow dim, there is a scene change and suddenly we’re in a whirlpool with a giant sandwich and a pair of headphones.” That guy is proof that none of us should have to spend one second in a mental institution, including yours truly.

Roddick got a break or two to take the 3rd set. He jacked off the invisible giant standing in front of him and Tennisburger actually said out loud, “woe as me.”

Hold, repeat. Hold, repeat. That’s pretty much all that happened in the 4th set. My chub was not any bouncier despite following the directions. Somewhere in the middle of the tie-break my DVR said enough is enough and I was just left with Liszt in the background, and a haggard what’s her face being interviewed on what’s his face’s late night talk show. I sobbed and went to bed. Samuel Powers made his dad so proud his head exploded, 6-2, 6-3, 3-6, 7-6. For some reason I imagine his dad milks him.

We’ll (hopefully not) do this again tomorrow. All my friends have left me, (or I’ve left them, you can never really pin point those things in time), so I should be home to see the rest of the women and the men. Can I get a what, what? See you tomorrow! Please hoist up a cold one to yours truly Friday night and get black out drunk (unless you’re drinking Coors Light, in which case, nevermind). I’ll be in bed intently listing for the glasses to clink.